Failure
by Horsey Spike
Summary: Anya thinks she is a failure. Spoilers for 'The Gift'.


  
TITLE: Failure (1/1)  
AUTHOR: Horsey Spike  
EMAIL: horseyspike@aol.com  
RATING: R- for death  
SUMMARY: Anya thinks she is a failure.  
SPOILERS: 'The Gift' and all the BtVS episodes before it.   
DISCLAIMER: Buffy and Co. do not belong to me. I repeat, do not belong to me. Please place your hands where I can see them.  
FEEDBACK: Por favor, tell if this is a bungling mess.   
DISTRIBUTION: Take it if you want it.   
NOTES: I've never hand any first hand experience with this matter, so I don't know if it's very realistic.   
  
Answer to Gloveslap #24 at YGTS?(http://ygts.cjb.net)- My character was Anya.   
---  
  
The beeping's annoying me.   
  
That's the only thing I can think about. If I think about anything else, it hurts too much. And I've discovered after 10 years of being human, I don't like to be hurt. At all.   
  
I don't like to be hurt physically by demons, or emotionally, by people dying on me. Everyone started dying after Buffy did. It's like she started a fad with her death.  
  
But, I don't care about them anymore. The only one who meant something was Xander, and he's been gone seven years. To the day.   
  
Guess it's fitting that I die on the same day he did.  
  
I hate being human!! I loathe it was all of my human-ness. This is my last final protest. D'Hoffryn won't come and save me, like I always thought he would, if I ever got to this point. He was killed himself.  
  
Death. What an awful word.   
  
I guess I am the definition of death now. I look it, I act it. I'm useless. To everyone. My hair is falling out, I can feel the nurses pulling it away, when they check me at night. My skin's all stretched and my bones show more than a hundred year corpse. I can't move my hands, I lost feeling in them last week.   
  
It's not my fault, I told myself in the early days. It was Xander's for dying. It was that guy for not wearing a condom. It was the guy after him for having one that broke. It was D'Hoffryn, whose magick that made me a demon, also made the disease spread through me faster. It's Giles's fault for making me mortal. It's Buffy's for even coming to Sunnydale.  
  
It's my fault for letting myself be deluded by myself. For letting myself forget that I'm not a demon, for letting myself forget that I wasn't going to live forever. For letting myself be careless. For letting myself fall in love, when I knew what it does to people.  
  
I can feel it coming. I want to move, to scramble away before Death can get me. To escape from it's grip one more time. But, I can't. My muscles have no strength left in them.   
  
I wonder if I'll be with Xander, when I die. If I'm worthy enough to get to the high, heavenly place, where he undoubtedly rests now. What does he think of me? Am I a failure, a failure because I couldn't learn to be human? Because I'm going to die?   
  
I don't want it. I don't want death. I don't like it. I never have. I wonder if anyone will grieve for me. If I even deserve to be grieved over. I don't believe I do. After ten years, I finally have a conscience. I feel.. regret, remorse, over what I did to men over the centuries.   
  
And now I wonder if a perfect, heavenly place will accept me through it's gates.   
  
The door cracks open to my room. I can hear it. I can shift my eyes in the direction of the door. It takes too much effort to move my head.  
  
It's Spike. He's here again. He's come a couple times to see me. He always brings daisies. I think it's something to do with Drusilla.  
  
He shows out the daises to me, and puts them in the vase with the other ones, all in various states of death.   
  
Death is everywhere. I see it everywhere.   
  
Except Spike. He may be a vampire, but he's so full of life. I'm instantly jealous of him, whenever I think about him. He's going to live forever. A forever I had. A forever that I know is ending tonight.  
  
He never says anything. It's not like I could respond, with a tube down my throat. He sits by my side, and sometimes he holds my hand, but he just sits.   
  
He's a comfort in my last hour. Minutes, maybe. I can't tell. Just that the pain is getting worse, and I wish a nurse would come with painkillers. But, they all know it's just a waste of painkillers, even if she was around. They all know I'm going to die soon. They knew it when they admitted me a month ago. They knew it when I was diagnosed with late-stage AIDS.   
  
No, no, no, nononono! This is wrong! I'm not supposed to die! I don't want it. A whimper rises, and the pain gets worse. I don't wanna close my eyes. I wanna watch Spike. I want to watch him as I die. I want him to be the last thing I see.   
  
His eyes lock with mine, and I see something I have never seen in his other visits.   
  
Sorrow.   
  
He knows. He knows I'm going to die tonight. He can feel it in my human body. He can smell the decay, the death in and around me.   
  
I want to cry, but I have no tears.   
  
The pain forces me to shut my eyes, and burned inside my eyelids is a picture of Spike, blond hair, blue eyes, looking at me with sorrow. I hold on to that image.  
  
I feel him take my hand, and pick it up off the bed. He kisses my hand, like a gentleman does, and then he leans up and kisses my cheek. He murmured, "Sleep well, Anyanka."  
  
I wonder if Spike will grieve for me, a failure. 


End file.
